Limited
by willshakespeare-immortalbard
Summary: Being locked in a cell is limiting. Machiavelli is limited. He knows someone who is less limited, if he can contact them. This all depends on the golden tablet currently lying out of his reach. Rated K-plus, but rating may change. Please read/review!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own this. **_**The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel **_** belongs to Michael Scott. Not me. I. Own. Nothing. **

**Notes on fic: This plot bunny hopped into my head about two months ago. I'm writing it now. And I apologize for all the stories I'm not finishing. If there's anything you've been following, hoping for an update, please tell me in a review, and I'll try to update it. Speaking of reviews—**_**Please read/review!**_

**Summary: Being locked in a cell is limiting. Machiavelli is limited. He knows someone who is **_**less**_** limited, if he can contact them. This all depends on the golden tablet currently lying out of his reach.**

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><p><strong>Limited<strong>

The golden tablet remained lying on the prison floor. The darkness faded from it, and after the frightening black of the swirling leygate, the soft gold looked soft and unreal. The stones beneath it looked like bumpy waves from his position on the floor. The tablet was…_one, two, three, four, five, six…_six tiles away. Just out of reach of his fingertips, as he found out when he stuck his arm through the bars and stretched out his hand, scrabbling against the stone floor, squirming and twisting uncomfortably, trying to maximize his reach.

"Machiavlli? Niccolo? Erm…" Behind Machiavelli, the Kid cleared his throat. "What are you doing?"

"Trying…to…reach…"—each word was a panted grunt—"…the…tablet…" His arm refused to stretch farther, and the tablet was, of course, mere centimeters from the pads of his groping fingers.

"Why? Billy asked, crouching down next to Machiavelli, staring at the tablet on the floor. "It's…it's not going to help us, I'm pretty sure."

"It is," Machiavelli snapped, still lying on his stomach. "If I can reach it." He pressed himself against the bars. He was getting rust all over his suit. But it was worth it. The tablet brushed against his fingers, and his grey aura sparked, and he was able to magnetize it in the split second of contact. When he drew his hand back toward him, the tablet dragged along the floor, scraping and thumping over the bumps.

He clutched it like a precious treasure once he got it in his hands. It wasn't because it was golden. It wasn't because it was some ancient piece of history from Danu Talis. It wasn't because there was a chance—a _chance_—that Abraham the Mage had held it in his hand. He clutched it in his hands because it was their only hope. It was the Flamel's only hope. It was San Francisco's only hope. It was the world's only hope.

His hands were shaking.

The horrid images of fire and destruction faded from his mind, replaced by remembrances of depressingly empty files, with little more than names and common dates, a few adresses long since abandoned, and selfish thoughts of answered questions—

An unidentifiable scent filled the air when he ran his trembling fingers over the golden surface of the tablet.

"What are you going to use that for?" Billy asked.

"We need help, Billy. I might be able to use this to contact someone who can help us. Maybe. If I can tap into the auric power of the tablet…"

"Like hacking?"

"Rather. If I can tap into the auric power of the tablet, I should be able to contact somebody. If I'm lucky, I can find the person I want. Or someone who can direct me to them."

He let his aura seep into the tablet. Small sparks of something—_emotions?_—bit his fingers like electric shocks, and he felt brief instances of pain and loss and fear and desperation before a sharp shriek echoed through the cell.

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><p>She flung the tablet from her like it was poisonous snake. The little sparks that had attacked her skin through her pocket made her shudder. It felt strange, and somehow her thought about snakes had brought the scent of snake skin on the air.<p>

"Please! Sophie Newman, I beg you."

She was the only one who heard. She lowered herself into a crouch, peering into the shining surgace of the tablet.

"You…you're Machiavelli," she whispered, glancing nervously to where her brother stalked on ahead of the group. No one had heard her cry, or at least no one had bothered to pay it any attention.

"Sophie Newman, I need your help. I need you to find somebody. I believe you met them back in London, a few days ago…"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N—I own nothing. **

**Oh, and this is also _purely friendship! _**

**Many thanks to Elycia-of-Arc and Cedargirl for their reviews! **

**Please read/review!**

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><p>"Mr. Shakespeare?"<p>

The man who stood before _couldn't_ be the Bard. It didn't seem possible. Every image of William Shakespeare that Machiavelli had ever seen was flashing in his head like a neon sign. And the pictures weren't lining up.

The man before him was short and slim, with large glasses and too large jeans and a shirt advertising _GERMAIN—THE ULTIMATE TECHNO EXPERIENCE!_. The sleeves were pushed up on his arms. If not for the wispy mustache, Machiavelli wouldn't even had considered the option of his being William Shakespeare.

"Yes?" the man asked in a clipped British voice.

"You _are_ Mr. Shakespeare?"

"Yes. You are _Signor_ Machiavelli, correct?"

Machiavelli nodded, and the screen shook as the tablet trembled in his hand. He was speaking to William Shakespeare.

And selfish memories of imcomplete files and empty spaces waiting to be filled with answers intruded on the moment.

He could get those answers, perhaps, from William Shakespeare himself.

"You wished to speak with me?" Shakespeare asked.

"Yes. And a few questions, if time allows."

"Perhaps…" Shakespeare grew reticent, and he glanced over his shoulder at something or someone Machiavelli could not see. "But for now, what do you want?"

Machiavelli took a deep breath, feeling it shake in his chest. "You performed a conjugation in London, yes?"

"Yes…"

"The properties of conjugations do not apply to time and space, yes?"

Shakespeare shook his head. "No, but they do affect the power of the conjugation."

"Could you do it again?"

There was silence.

No one spoke. Behind Machiavelli, Billy shifted, peering over the Italian immortal's shoulder and whistling. "Is that William Shakespeare? The Bard?"

"Yes," Machiavelli said softly. "It is."

"Whoa…no offense, Mr. Shakespeare, but your plays are the worst thing to ever hit students."

"Billy!" Machiavelli snapped. Shakespeare smiled and shook his head.

"I'm not offended."

Someone behind him muttered something unintelligible in an ancient language, and Shakespeare turned to exchange a few words with the unseen person, laughing and joking. Machiavelli thought he heard a snatch of a Shakespeare quote, but he wasn't fluent enough in the language—which he thought might be some twisted form of the speech of Danu Talis—to know.

Machiavelli cleared his throat. "Could you do it again?"

"I could," Shakespeare said. "But it would be dangerous…"

"It would be suicide."

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><p>A dark shadow shimmered green. Machiavelli's breath caught in his throat. It wasn't hard to guess the identity of the rumbling Babylonian voice. Yet it hadn't occurred to him that he might meet the Saracen Knight.<p>

"Sir Palamedes—"

"We don't have much of a choice," Shakespeare replied tensely.

The Saracen Knight turned to face Machiavelli. "What you are asking is nothing short of Will's suicide."

_Will?..._For a moment the knight's glare shook Machiavelli, and he couldn't recognize the name. And then he remembered: William…_Will_.

"Will—"

"I can't do it alone, Palamedes. I would need help."

Palamedes twisted the hilt of his sword in his hand. His dark eyes were hateful when he glanced at Machiavelli.

"Who's that?" Billy asked. "I don't know him."

"You wouldn't. He's Palamedes, the Saracen Knight. Very old, very dangerous."

Shakespeare laughed. "He refers to you like you are some rare animal or plant, Pally."

The nickname hung in the air for a moment, and Shakespeare rubbed a hand against his face, realizing his slip. "Oops. You hate that, don't you?"

Palamedes cursed in Babylonian. "Fine. But if you go to far, I'll withdraw my aura. You must _promise_ that you'll stop the moment I do."

Shakespeare nodded. "I will."

"I want your promise, Will. No lying, no loopholes."

"I promise, Palamedes."

"Alright." Palamedes shot a sharp look at Machiavelli. "You'll have to take whatever he can give you." He turned back to Will. "I hold myself personally responsible for your personal welfare. So don't kill yourself."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N—Disclaimer: I _do not own_ this. Everything belongs to Michael Scott. _Everything_. **

**Note-Sorry this took so long to update. My muse has decided to be sporadic with me, and then I just got busy. But I needed to update this, and here it is! Chapter three. Pretty emotional at parts, I think. :) I hope so. **

**This piece is dedicated to all you wonderful readers/reviewers! You're incredibly kind people. Thanks for everything! Please read/review! **

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><p>"This is suicide, Will."<p>

His friend knew it. Palamedes could see the knowledge in the paleness of his face and the shaking of his hands.

A ways off, the golden tablet was nothing but a glimmer in Sophie's hands.

Will sank to the ground, pulling his knees to his chest. His light blue eyes sparkled with emotion as he rested his chin on his kneecaps, and Palamedes could see him shivering.

"We…" his breath shook. "We don't have any choice. If the Elders' plan in San Francisco works, there won't be a world to save. And if we fail, there won't be a world to go back to." He shifted his head, burying his face against his knees, hiding his eyes from the unfamiliar world. "I—"

The knight wrapped his arms about Will and held him as his fear overcame him and he choked out, in the voice of a frightened child,

"I-I want to go home."

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><p>Shakespeare's eyes were red-rimmed against his pale face when he picked up the tablet. He bit his lip once, swallowing back the emotion that glittered in his washed out eyes.<p>

"We're ready," he said in a three-quarter's-steady voice. Behind him, Machiavelli could feel waves of clove scented hatred emanating from the Saracen Knight's tall figure. His oily eyes were pits of fury and doom, and Machiavelli could almost swear that he saw flickering images of destruction in them.

"Yikes," Billy muttered softly. "We've gotten on his bad side, haven't we?"

Machiavelli shook his head, shushing the Kid. "Don't speak."

The tablet shook as Shakespeare set it down and knelt by the small hole that he and Palamedes had dug in the ground. He adjusted his glasses, disentangling a few runaway strands of hair from the sides, wincing slightly. Palamedes stood over him, hands on his shoulders, and Machiavelli saw the knight's wrestler's fingers begin to glow olive green. Shakespeare's lemon aura sparked with a sound as of lightning, and Billy jumped, head whipping about the cell they were trapped in before returning his attention to the two immortals on Danu Talis. The Bard's voice had lost its indecision and fear when he spoke again, and suddenly the slim, pale-eyed figure was filled with power.

"Bubble, bubble…"

Machiavelli and Billy gagged on the heady scent of lemons and cloves, and they nearly missed the first avalanche of creatures through the watering in their eyes.

Shakespeare ceased speaking after the first two words, his lips moving in a silent monologue. The creatures that swirled and fled from his hands were different from the snakes and hedgehogs that had littered the ravaged ground of the junkyard. Instead, Shakespeare conjured replicas of the creatures that had flown the coop of Alcatraz—vampires with bloodied teeth, vetala with ragged wings and dragging feet, werewolves experimentally gnashing their teeth, slithering serpents that wound lovingly about the Bard's knees and the Saracen Knight's ankles before hissing towards the tablet.

Billy swore and staggered back, sidestepping the creatures that encased the tablet and dropped onto the floor. He made a stifled shriek of disgust in the back of his throat as a snake slammed into his arm on its way to the ground. "Ack!"

The bars shook against the throng of creatures, all howling and moaning for freedom.

They gave way a split second before Palamedes jerked his hands away from Shakespeare's shoulders with a cry of warning.

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><p>Will wavered, the only thing keeping him from crumpling the fact that he was already on his knees. Black dots bounced around his vision like jumping beans. It made him ill, and he felt strong hands grasp his arms, holding him as he leaned over and vomited into the now empty hole. His glasses slid down his nose, and he reached for them. The jolt in his vision as he corrected their position made him sick again, and Palamedes waited until the second bout of vomiting was over before pulling him to his feet. He let the knight carry his weight, not even strong enough to care that he looked weak and pathetic.<p>

"Thank you," he heard Machiavelli say, his voice polite and strained. Palamedes didn't answer, too busy holding Will upright, and Will's words were cut off by the threat of more vomiting which he barely managed to quell.

When the world steadied the tablet had faded into a simple golden rectangle. The last vestiges of their world, their time, had vanished, and Will managed to whisper, "Palamedes, are we going to die here?" before he broke into tears.


End file.
